


Fall To My Knees

by pacemuth



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Collars, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pacemuth/pseuds/pacemuth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the list of weirdest things that had been thrown on stage, the collar was probably at the top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall To My Knees

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Jonas Brothers' "Pom Poms".
> 
> (This fic was rewritten six times between its inception and posting. Oops.)

On the list of weirdest things that had been thrown on stage, the collar was probably at the top. Zayn ignores most things they get, aside from their shenanigans onstage, but the collar stays with him.

A week and a half after they first get it, Zayn caves to his mind’s incessant stream of _collar--what would it feel like--collar--is it leather--collar--would it be much of a turn on--collar, collar, collarcollarcollarcollarcollar_ and tracks it down. They keep a suitcase for the weird shit that gets thrown on stage and it takes him less than thirty seconds to locate and snag the collar, stuffing it into his own suitcase until the next hotel stop.

He silently thanks the powers that be that they all sprung for singles on this tour when he slips it around his neck and buckles it.

It _is_ leather, black, and the inside of it feels soft against his neck when it settles, the buckle resting at the hollow of his throat and--Zayn swallows and feels it tighten momentarily--it feels comfortable in a way that it probably shouldn’t.

He’s been hard from the moment he closed the door to his room, informing the other lads that he was staying in tonight, and putting the collar on just made it worse. He gets his jeans undone and shoves them down just enough to get his cock out and wrap his hand around it, his other hand coming up to touch at the collar. He couldn’t have dragged it out, even if he wanted to, because he comes within moments, all over his hand and leaning against the dresser, and _holy fuck_ , he’s never come that hard.

He ends up sleeping in it that night, and sleeps better than he has in a long time.

\---

He wears it every hotel night after, as soon as he’s in the room for the night, he digs it out and puts it on. It’s an odd form of relief for him, and he finds himself wishing someone was there with him, so he could share it with them.

It starts small, just imagining someone else slipping it around his neck and buckling it, their fingers running over the smooth leather, already worn from only a month of having it. It grows, to the imagined person pressing on his shoulders, urging him to his knees in the fantasy, and--even if he’s alone in his hotel room, even if there’s nobody really _there_ , being on his knees because it pleases his imaginary person with his collar on--

Zayn hasn’t felt anything better.

\---

He finds the club by accident, just wandering the streets of the city they’re in. He’s got a hat tugged down over his hair, head ducked so he isn’t recognized, and his collar’s on, fingers reaching up to touch it every so often. Wearing it out is a new development, one brought on by the whispered idea from his imaginary person--his own idea, he knows, but the thought of pleasing someone, even just someone he makes up, makes him _happy_.

The club’s nondescript on the outside, just a basic sign and a bouncer, and Zayn slips in, winding his way to the bar and leaning against it for a moment. His jacket’s come open, showing off the collar, and he can hear the pleased hum of his imaginary person in his head. He’s far from the only person wearing a collar and he can count half a dozen people within only a few feet who all have their own.

They all seem to have someone, unlike him, and he firmly quashes the jealousy before it gets a chance to form. He can’t have someone, not like that, not with his life and his schedule.

(He shuts up the part of his brain that says he has four guys he lives with that would probably be amazing with him. He resolutely ignores the thought of being on his knees to please them, and the rush of longing that accompanies the thought. He tries not to imagine them murmuring orders and praise to him as they fuck him, sprawled out on a hotel bed, or whispering _good boy_ to him as he drops to his knees on the bus. They wouldn’t offer. And Zayn won’t ask.)

“Are you here with anyone?” It’s a stranger, who’s eyeing him and smirking. Zayn swallows and shakes his head, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Do you want someone? Just for a fuck?”

He thinks about it, he really does. Imagines the guy leading him back to a room and stripping him down, fucking him, but he doesn’t want that. It’s not enough. He knows what he wants, even if he can’t ask.

He says no to the stranger and gets up, works his way out of the club and onto the street, trying to ignore the stranger’s parting words of “you should ask them, whoever they are” as best he can.

He should.

The boys would probably go for it and Zayn would get--

He thinks _fuck it_ and calls a cab.

\---

It takes him three days to work up the courage. The other four are all piled in the lounge of the bus while Zayn lies in his bunk, staring up at the ceiling and running his fingers over the collar in his hands.

He puts it on, taking a moment to just enjoy the feeling of having it on, strokes his fingers over the leather and gets up.

The door to the lounge closing behind him sounds like an executioner’s axe hitting the block.

\---

They don’t tease him for it. They don’t judge. They just pull him down on the couch and stroke their fingers over the collar, offering without him even properly asking.

His imaginary person hums and vanishes in his head and Zayn leans into them, murmuring his acceptance. They strip him and press him into the couch, fingers and mouths and hands everywhere, making him beg and plead for something, anything.

The _good boy_ he hears when he follows their orders and comes makes him flush from his head to his toes, the pride (and desire, fuck) infused in it making him squirm because he never thought they’d want to as much as he does, but they do.

(He was wrong. The best thing he’s ever felt is the rush of pride and giddiness that hits him whenever one of them murmurs _good boy_ in his ear and fingers running over his collar.)


End file.
